Hyde Park, London, England
by Dominaet
Summary: May 25th, 1912, turned out to be a far more eventful day in the lives of Mary Poppins and Herbert Alfred than either of them had much reason to expect...  billows of fluff


On the 25th of May in the year 1912 the sky over the city of London, England was a rare blue, hanging pale and watery in the waning light of the setting sun as the bells of St. Paul's struck five, and in Hyde Park Mary Poppins was being stubborn.

"…I have no interest in staying out any longer this evening, Bert, and it's entirely improper of you to ask. We are not children anymore," she stated, concluding a rather long-winded and rather convincing oration on the ignominy of evening walks with adult acquaintances of the opposite sex.

Bert, far from letting this speech phase him, raised his eyebrows and shrugged.

"Well, I don't see what that has to do with it. Seems to me, if two grown people are fond of one another they ought to be able to go where they like, when they choose."

Mary sniffed disdainfully. "You may think that, but what you think has very little to do with reality."

Bert, feeling that this all was going a bit too far, decided to take one of his rare stands.

"Whatever you say, Mary, we both know you're just being a snob –" he pressed on, ignoring her livid, wide-eyed stare " – and I intend to walk you home tonight, whether it's proper or not."

_Oh dear, I do believe he means it, _Mary thought, and as he made to take her arm she twitched away suddenly, involuntarily, feeling oddly panicked, so much so that for a split second she was unable to conceal it. She regained her poise almost immediately, but unfortunately (or fortunately, depending on one's opinion of public displays of emotion), Bert was an uncommonly perceptive kind of person, and as such sensed Mary's distress, despite her almost immediate recovery.

"Why, Mary Poppins!" Bert exclaimed, "I do believe you're afraid of me!"

His tone suggested a jest, but a cursory examination of his face would reveal a distinctly serious interest in the matter and, deep in the pools of his eyes, a shade of incredulous wonder.

"Ha!" Mary said, in musical disdain. "What a preposterous idea!"

But the once-forbidden suggestion had forced itself on Bert's mind, and he found himself quite incapable of letting the matter rest.

"Is it now? Well, then, perhaps you'd care to explain your sudden disinclination to accompany me on an innocent evening walk, such as we used to do."

Mary sniffed and disdained to answer, but her eyes, fixed on something in the air above his head, flickered involuntarily. Had something been revealed? Even a split second later Bert couldn't remember what, exactly, that flicker had told him, but he was certain that it was something that strengthened the highly improbable theory moving pushily to the forefront of his mind. He couldn't back out now, despite being terrifyingly unsure that he was prepared for the outcome of this conversation.

"No, you can't fool me, Mary Poppins. There is decidedly a look of fear about you. Why?"

Mary crossed her arms. "Bert, don't be ridiculous. I haven't the slightest idea what you're talking about."

"Haven't you?"

The gravity in his eyes was more telling than his deceptively light tone. He had her now – despite his disbelief, he could sense it, in her wandering eyes and her tightly crossed arms. He took a deliberate step closer and was further convinced by the quickening rise and fall of her chest as her breathing became shallower, and by the way she suddenly, reflexively, lifted her chin in an unconvincing show of… what? Denial? Indifference? Whatever it was, its insincerity conveyed the exact opposite of what she intended.

In all honesty, Bert was flabbergasted. How on this rational earth could a reality such as the one obviously displayed before him come to pass? What strange mutation of natural laws had allowed the bloom that was pressing to unfurl in the chasm of his chest? He was suddenly unsure.

"Mary…?"

The change in her face was not the result of any one part of it moving noticeably but of a collective wave of fractional movement that was somehow unmistakable. How odd, Bert reflected remotely, that one word had the capacity to wreak such havoc.

How terrifying, Mary reflected not-so-remotely, that such a tone could come from Bert's lips. Which, speaking of –

"Bert," Mary said some time later, with a valiant but ultimately vain attempt at severity, "You could've at least washed first. What on earth will the children think?"

"Hmm," Bert responded absently, being entirely too occupied with the blooming, rushing, all-encompassing glory that is love to fully attend to such commonplace words. "I suppose" pause "you could tell them" pause "that you had a brush with an unsavory type" long pause.

"Don't be ridiculous. They're far too young for a story like that."

Bert pulled back to look at her properly, his involuntary half-smile stretching into a grin. "Not _that _kind of brush."

Mary's unsuccessfully concealed blush was far too pretty to be resisted.


End file.
